


Ondolindë's end

by RomanticNoldo



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Violence, Burning alive, Deathfic, F/M, HoME based, Loss of Limbs, Mention of torture, POV Second Person, description of death, more sad than dark though, unrequited love/obsession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanticNoldo/pseuds/RomanticNoldo
Summary: Gondolin falls, and many fall with her.
Relationships: Idril Celebrindal/Maeglin | Lómion/Tuor
Kudos: 13





	Ondolindë's end

It all lasts a few moments.

A creature of Morgoth suddenly appears, so suddenly so that you barely notice it. The deformed face grins, his sword - if you can call that the sharp metal spike that he holds - drips the blood of those who have had the misfortune to get in his way, perhaps belonging your friends and relatives. In his eyes there are cruelty and desire to kill, and for a moment you tremble, despite the suffocating heat of the fire that now envelops everything. But you don't forget your task.

The creature's sprint too fast, and just as little Eärendil's cry of terror reaches your ears. So you do what you were tol.

That being's sword enters you, and it hurts. If you had the strength to do it you would scream, but every perception is already slipping away, leaving only the pain and the effort to fill your lungs with air. Voronwë cries something, but you can't make out the words. Then you feel the blade being pulled out of your body, and a new pang overwhelms you, but it's only a moment, you can breathe now. Through the veil that is covering your eyes you can see Tuor's son, terrified and covered in blood - yourss - but still alive.

And you know that dying has served a purpose, that you have succeeded in carrying out your lord's order, and you do not regret having done so, nor having followed him. He trusted you, gave it to all of you, and will guide your companions to salvation. You won't be able to go with them, but in the meantime you've done what you had to.

Sweet shall thy sleep be, Ilmion [1].

But one day the White Wing will fly again.

...

It's hot. Smoke clouds the sky, fire is everywhere. You are tired, but you cannot afford to stop, because if you do you will be killed.

And you don't want to die.

If you die, you will lose every chance to save Gondolin, and you don't want to. This is your home, and you would give anything to protect it.

You turn around just in time to avoid a direct hit to your back. Your sword splits the orc's head in two, and its black blood covers the blade and hilt and splashes on your arm. It is cold, as if it were made of iron. You shiver.

You keep killing any enemy that comes in front of you, deluding yourself that the desperate attempt you and your companions are making will succeed, that sooner or later you will be able to drive them all away and you will not be forced to leave. You don't feel fear, just anger. Anger inflames your blood, swells your heart, giving you strength, but it's cold, allowing you to stay in control.

You can't let them win.

The blood of Morgoth's spawn keep staining your sword, as well as the ground, flowing into a black river next to red elven blood. You can't believe the streets of your beautiful city are under there.

You keep hitting them, over and over, and you think maybe you can make it. But in an instant everything changes. The pain in your shoulder comes suddenly, and a moment later you hear the clang of the metal of your weapon on the ground.

They just ripped off your arm.

A cascade of blood immediately gushes from your body. Ignoring the pain, you bring your left hand to cover what's left of your shoulder, and the missing limb makes you shiver. You falter. You fall. You hear Egalmoth's voice, and you feel frustrated at not being able to get up and being able to fight again alongside your commander.

You turn around, looking for a way to get back on your feet, but you can't. An orc takes advantage of your stillness and his sword quickly pierces your heart, ending your life. It's a relief.

Sweet shall thy sleep be, Galadloth [1].

But one day the Heavenly Arc will show again in the sky.

...

You fought. You resisted. You did everything to prevent Gondolin from falling.

Yet now you are forced to flee.

The wounds burn, but it is your soul that hurts, caught up humiliation, anger, and pain. Too many have died defending your home, but it didn't help. It is all destroyed, and you have been cast out like intruders.

If it were up to you, you'd still be in there fighting. But you must follow your people, and prevent those who saved themselves from being killed. You can still do this.

You hear a strange sound, a hiss, and you turn quickly. You're not the only one. Galdor, in front of you, turns around too, and the rest of the people freeze too. Somehow, you feel the fear in the air. A frightened child bursts into tears.

They are following you.

For a moment you feel panic engulfes you. You breathe deeply, and you calm down.

You will not fail in this too. None of you will fail.

What remains of your army prepares for a new battle, and you with them. You still have a task to complete, and this time you won't fail. Gondolin is not only in stone and crystal, it is not only in homes and forges. Gondolin is in the hearts of those who have lived side by side for centuries as one people, and who you must now save before it is too late.

Cities can be rebuilt, but broken lives cannot return.

So you have to let them go, even if you don't know if you can ever follow them.

You only realize it after a few minutes. Something blocks your movements. A spear in your back, and it all ends.

Sweet shall thy sleep be, Aeglas [1].

But one day the Tree will flourish again.

...

You do not want to believe it. You wish this wasn't really happening.

But you can't ignore the cries of your soldiers as the orcs' spears and arrows hit them, nor the writhing of fiery creatures beneath the walls. From up here you can see the enemy army. It never seems to end.

You grit your teeth in anger. They are too many. All the forces of the Twelve Houses combined would not be half of them.

But that's not why you decide to be discouraged.

Instead, you try to gather as many soldiers around you as possible. You catch the eye of several of them. You see their fear, but also their courage. And trust. They trust you.

But you don't know if you can save them.

However, you don't express your fear, you don't try to dishearten them. You can't do this.

You nock an arrow to your bow, and your voice vibrates with a strange calm, a calm you don't have, as you ask them to do the same.

Your words lash the air again, a shower of arrows pours down from the walls. Almost all of them hit their target, many fall, among the enemy ranks, at least among the orcs. You feel a glimmer of hope in your heart for this tiny victory, and for a moment you rejoice.

You prepare another arrow, but something suddenly hits you. With a scream of pain and surprise you release your grip on the string, and your weapon starts disappearing into the sky, useless.

Whatever hit you, it burns. You lose your balance, you fall.

You barely notice the flames that are devouring you and the nearly charred dart that has planted itself in your belly. The pain of the fire is blinding you, you can hardly see anything that is not interrupted by the dark shadows of death.

You will become ashes before you even hit the ground, and you know it. But before your mind is completely destroyed, you wonder if your actions will be in vain.

Sweet shall thy sleep be, Duilin.

But one day the Swallow will hover lightly again.

...

You feel nothing. You don't notice anything. Only the anger that seems to want to burn you, burning like the flames of a forge, like the fire of Morgoth.

The only thing you want is to charge recklessly at your enemies, but you know that you will never make it, that it is suicide. Yet the desire to do so remains, it shines in your darkened eyes as you stare at the blood staining your weapons. The blood of those beings, but also of your companions. You saw them die next to you, and every time even a drop of their blood bathed you in horror and anger, and perhaps even the guilt of not being able to protect them even though you knew from the start they would die, grew to torture, a sharp blade slowly killing you. But you couldn't do anything.

A thrill of anger runs through you violently at the memory. You look at the corpses gathered around you, friends and enemies, and the vision of the cold and dead faces of your soldiers, of their empty eyes - eyes that until a few minutes ago were full of courage and determination - ignites you again, breaking down yet another time on your soul. Neither the Balrogs who look at you menacingly, nor the wounds of your body will be able to stop you.

You have to keep fighting. You must avenge the fallen, and you will. And each of these machines, these mere tools of the Black Enemy created to destroy the dreams of those who are free, whose life you will take will be a new note in Gondolin's song of hope.

You will fight again. You will do it for those who must continue to live.

You think back of all the dead. You think back of your brave, most valiant men, whom you sent to meet their end.

And it is without fear, while the cry of your soul becomes the one of your body, that you launch yourself against the first demon.

The whip sinks into your skin leaving marks on you, the claws tear you repeatedly, but you keep hitting until you feel nothing, because you already no longer exist.

Sweet shall thy sleep be, Rog.

But one day the Hammer of Wrath will strike Evil again.

...

You didn't think it would end like this.

You didn't think you'd find yourself dying this way, held up in a corner like the worst of cowards.

But it is happening.

You already know you won't get out of here alive. Orcs are pouring in here by the hundreds, even if you killed the ones who are attacking you now you will have to face the others. You are too tired to do it.

Those who were with you are all dead already, and you will soon join them. You vividly feel the blood that falls, hot and slow, from the points where the iron has torn your skin, your own breathing, heavy and labored, the sense of oppression given to you by the cold stone behind you and by the numerous creatures that are in front you, grinning as they slowly break you.

The thought of dying here distresses you, but you don't want to stop.

You will resist. You will hold out until the end, taking as many opponents with you as you can before flying into Mandos's Halls.

As useless as it is, you can't do anything else.

But it's useless. There are too many for you to take them. A cold blade lands on your throat, and it is only a very long moment before your time is torn between the instant you were alive and the instant you are no longer.

But at least you resisted until the end.

Sweet shall thy sleep be, Penlod.

But one day the Pillar and the Snow Tower will again rise imposingly towards the sky.

...

You feel it almost immediately.

The smell of smoke.

You recognize it, too close, just as the heat of the fire is too close. It's coming. Your frightened trembling becomes uncontrollable, but you are afraid to get up.

And not only. You are afraid of everything. Of fire, of the monsters out there, of fighting ...

Yet others are able to control their fear. Probably hundreds will be dying to stop Morgoth's spawn from advancing. And what about you?

You are curled up in your bed trembling in terror, like the coward you are.

One part of you reproaches you for your conduct, for your being so fearful, but the other, overwhelmed by fear, prevents you from doing anything but waiting for death, at the hands of fire or iron.

You silently praise your soldiers for their valour, for not following your example. You envy them. You would like to be like them, capable of fighting for the salvation of your people.

But you don't even have the courage to get up and save yourself, perhaps by finding death in glory and valour, rather than trapped in your own abode. This death is meant for the defenseless, not for those who should be repelling the assailants to prevent the fall of your city.

The flames get even closer, they devour the door and the floor, go up the fabric of the blankets, and you wait for them to bite you, helpless.

And while the first spark burns your skin, as the fire finally takes hold of you, tears of repentance flow from your eyes, because you loved Gondolin, and you wish you had the courage to save it.

Sweet shall thy sleep be, Salgant.

But one day the Harp will play again and celebrate the deeds of the Gondolindrim.

...

The cool drops that run on your face are a relief. The fog that engulfed your eyes and mind clears, allowing you to feel conscious again. The marble of the fountain and of the streets is rough beneath you, and it lets you regain contact with reality.

Strenght comes back to your body, flowing slowly but steadily. It's too little - you're tired, and weak - but enough to get you back on your feet. Your legs tremble from the effort to regain balance.

How long have you been unconscious?

It does not matter. Now you are ready again.

Your left arm throbs painfully, and you can't find your shield anymore. You are without protection. The pain of the cuts has returned with consciousness, and you feel like your head is about to explode.

You try to ignore such feelings by focusing on Gothmog in front of you. The Balrog roars, its whip hissing in trails of sparks like a ribbon of flame.

Although you know that the odds of winning are too low, you run towards him, challenging him. You move fast, light, and look for a weak point in that huge beast covered in fire. You manage to hit him a few times, and rejoice when you hear his grunts of pain. You almost think you'll win in the end.

But he seems tireless, and his whip continues to graze you dangerously. A groan escapes from you as the searing heat reaches your injured arm. Your strikes begin to become less precise, his figure more blurred. You feel like you could collapse at any moment.

And you understand that your hope for victory is just an illusion, that you will never be able to defeat him.

Unless you find a way to do it with one strike.

An idea quickly shapes itself in your mind. You gather all your strength and you throw yourself at him, almost surprising yourself when he falls under you.

The waters of the fountain welcome you. You don't even have time to take a breath, but you don't care. You just want to win, you want Gothmog's existence to stop tainting Arda.

When you succeed, you feel satisfied.

But the satisfaction doesn't last. You keep sinking, you are running out of air, but you don't have the strength to swim up. And you understand how cruel is the joke that fate has destined for you, yet you are surprised to think that despite everything it is comforting to die here, protected by the water.

Sweet shall thy sleep be, Ecthelion son of Lalwen [2].

But one day the Source will gush joyfully again.

...

You thought that despite everything you save yourself.

You survived the battle within the walls of Gondolin, you managed to escape. But you will not go on any further.

The others will be saved, they will leave. Not you.

As you watch the other survivors - those with whom perhaps in the future you would have remembered this mournful day, the children you would have observed grow and the adults whose children you would have told about Gondolin - flee to safety, you remain there, facing yet another demon, yet another trap of Morgoth.

You don't care about how exhaust you are, about the blood that drips from a scratch on your head and gets lost in delicate red drops in the golden cobweb of your hair, about the chasm that would await you in case you just took a false step. You only care about him, our killer or your victim.

You feel nothing but hate for him and all the horrors of Angband. You remember all the dead you left behind when you abandoned the walls. Among those corpses there were women and children, there were many brave people you knew and respected, there were people who should never have known the war, or who had already been too scarred by it to relive it.

You want to avenge all those dead, but you know you can't. But you can save the living instead.

Your sword and his whip intertwine, crossing, the strikes you land are dodged or hit, and neither of you can win over the other. You feel exasperated by the stall, but there is nothing else you can do.

You control the fury, you keep fighting. The memories of the happy days in Gondolin, with the people you care most - now most of them are dead - keep running through your mind, giving you a reason to increase strength in your movements.

But then the fury of the battle escalates, and you can't find an opening that allows you to win. You feel the searing lash of his weapon on your body, but don't allow the pain to shock you, not even for a moment.

You do not notice that you are too close to the edge of the chasm when you attack him, pierce him, and watch him collapse. You realize that both of you are falling only when you hear the air hissing fast around you.

Aware that your time is running out, you keep striking, as its flames begin to envelop you, and the burning, indescribable pain with them. But you don't cry out, you don't let yourself go insane, you can only hope that your sacrifice is useful.

Then come the cold, the darkness, the void. But it won't be forever.

Sweet shall thy sleep be, Glorfindel son of Findis [3].

But one day the Golden Flower will blossom again.

...

Ulmo had warned you. You were certain it would happen someday.

Yet you keep feeling almost incredulous.

Your Gondolin. Your home, the place where perhaps your life was happiest, apart from Tirion, and the place your heart is most attached to.

Now it has fallen, lost forever. So many brave men have lost their lives to defend it, so many women and so many children have died here, killed by evil heartless beings. And the Valar will do nothing to help you.

And you will die too, you know it.

You wish they all left. Your subjects. Your family. Your men, who gathered around your high prison - a prison in which you have locked yourself up, intending not to flee - are still trying to defend you, dying in vain.

You will stay here. You will not answer the pleas of your people. It is not your job to guide them.

You knew it would end like this, and therefore you already know what your fate will be. And, for this very reason, you are not afraid of death.

If Gondolin is to fall, you will perish with her.

But that doesn't mean Morgoth will win. Others will fight again, others will shed their blood so that the survivors can live happily in a land free from evil.

You feel anger at the death that the ruin of your city brought with it, the bitterness in thinking that the end - yours and that of too many people - is due to the one you raised as a son and in whom, until some time ago, you could see your sister again, but deep down there is only a quiet peace.

Your father, your siblings and your wife await you there in Mandos, but your lineage will not be broken. Somehow you know that Idril, your little Idril, is now safe, Tuor, the man you most trust, is with her, and with them the child who is the hope for the Eldar and Edain. You can entrust the salvation of your people to them, and leave without regret.

And that's when you hit the ground, and you stop thinking.

Sweet shall thy sleep be, Turgon son of Fingolfin.

But one day the King will return, you will all return, and you will be happy.

...

They will curse you through centuries. They will call you a killer, a traitor.

You do not care.

They do not know.

There is a glint of anger in Tuor's eyes - the man who managed to take more than what had already been torn from you. His strikes are furious but precise, some have already hit the target. Your arm, where his sword has penetrated, bleeds and hurts you, but more than anything else it is the fire of wrath in your soul that burns.

He shouldn't have gotten in your way. Not again.

In addition to anger, his eyes contain contempt, now no longer hidden, like the one you saw in the gaze of the one you craved, and that he took away from you. But he doesn't know. No one among this shining and ruthless people knows.

They sat quietly in their homes, not knowing your blood dripping on the stone of Angband every time the Dark Lord's iron hit your body, the fear you felt in captivity, the way the darkness of that place amplified that of your heart, bringing it closer to a madness to which pain had already destined you. Not knowing the relief that filled you when the one could have been your killer gave you the opportunity to take revenge and wipe out this pain, to pull out the thorns that had been embedded in the depths of your being.

Torture was just another thorn, but also the least painful. Because the start was them, who allowed your mother to die for a law that was later no longer respected. It was them, who while accepting your presence never loved you, following you with distrust as if they were waiting at any moment for you to allow the darkness of your soul to take over and destroy them - as is happening now.

They cannot know how terrible were the wounds that these thorns inflicted on your heart, making it cry blood and darkness.

But the thorn that pierced you belonged to the most beautiful flower of all.

You loved Idril, you wanted her as if your life depended on her light, and you just wanted to see in her eyes the same love you felt. Instead you perceived fear and suspicion in her, and as your gaze changed into obsession, contempt slowly added to hers.

You prayed for peace through her, waiting, suffering, going insane.

And instead he came, and everything fell apart.

The people of Gondolin don't know your inner cries as despair, anger and hatred took you, they don't know your hidden tears when you saw that he in Idril's heart had taken the place that should have been yours.

And now, you could have won. You could finally get what you were entitled to.

But once again, Tuor ruined everything.

Darkness engulfs you and brings you to the end as your father's last words echo in your mind. It was a prophecy, now you realize it, and it has come true.

Bitter shall thy fall be, Maeglin son of Eöl.

But none of them will ever truly understand.

**Author's Note:**

> Although I generally prefer to use Quenya names, I have only used Sindarin names in this story. This story is my personal tribute to what I consider the best short story Tolkien ever wrote, and for this I preferred to use the language used in the books. Furthermore, I admit that I wanted to give this little writing a solemn and lyrical tone and therefore I chose to insert a recurring theme and, when I could, the patronymics of the characters. However, I have left Quenya in the title for reasons of personal preference.
> 
> [1]: Since Tuor, Egalmoth and Galdor survive the fall of Gondolin, I needed some substitutes. Ilmion, Galadloth and Aeglas were invented for this purpose. I'm sorry for them, but I had to.
> 
> [2]: According to a personal headcanon of mine, Findis and Lalwen are the mothers of Glorfindel and Ecthelion respectively (which would make them cousins and part of Finwe's house, and explain Glorfindel's blond hair). I thought of including this theory of mine in the story.
> 
> The "thorn" concept in the last paragraph is a homage to Blind Guardian's "Thorn", although I didn't quote directly from the song.
> 
> In the end I did not take up the theme of the Twelve Houses, because I wanted to make the ending more effective.


End file.
